The Truth Is a Theory

by Karyn Bristol

  “Meg, it’s clear he likes you.”

  Megan’s brow furrowed. “You know, once in a while I think that.” She shook her head. “But I’m kind of his boss.” She flipped over a price tag. “Plus we’ve been friends for too long now, I know too much about him. It would be weird.”

  “What do you mean, you’ve been like this all week?”

  Megan picked at her cuticle, her eyes locked on Tess. “Last weekend at dinner, I told him about Mark.” In between the salad course and the spaghetti she had poured out the story of her rape, as if the narrative had been waiting in her throat, lingering in the recesses of her mind for the right person, and then the right situation in which to spill out. And though she hadn’t spoken of that night in a long time, and had only ever done so with the girls, she didn’t edit herself. It was the first time that she had ever definitively said it was rape. She had never had the courage before to admit that she had been finally, truly violated.

  Jared had listened carefully as the blurred melody of forks clattering and voices chattering continued all around them. His eyes never left her face, his wire-rimmed attention forced the rest of the world to the side. He never once interrupted her and when she was finished, he didn’t ask for more details. He just reached out and held her hand across the red-and-white checked tablecloth.

  “And okay,” Megan said to Tess. “After I got home on Saturday, I realized I had feelings for him. He was so tender, so sweet. It made me feel safe. I haven’t felt that way in… well, ever.”

  Tess squeezed her arm.

  “But so what, right? That doesn’t mean we should get together. I can’t imagine kissing him.” But she had fantasized about it all week. She blushed again.

  “Best friends falling in love, that’s the ultimate,” Tess said.

  “In the movies. What if we kiss and it’s terrible?” Megan groaned. “Or only good for one of us?”

  “Or what if it’s amazing?” Tess said.

  “What if it ruins our friendship?”

  “Or what if it’s amazing?”

  Megan smiled. “Or what if it’s amazing. Oh my God, I’m Allie—zero to a hundred in a matter of seconds.”

  “It’s not seconds. It’s been almost a year.”

  “How am I going to act normal with him tonight?”

  “Why act normal?”

  “Now I’m nervous.” Megan checked her watch. “I need a drink.”

  “Why’d you pick Carmine’s for dinner? You’re going to reek of garlic.”

  “Maybe it’ll be a good litmus test.”

  ————

  That night, Megan tried to relax as she and Jared settled into their usual debriefing and sipped their way through their second glass of wine. Nothing unusual, a typical evening; although someone tell that to the popcorn kernels just heating up in my stomach.

  “I went out with Suzanne last night,” Jared said.

  Megan’s heart dipped, but she smiled. “A third date. How was it?”

  “Actually, great. She’s hilarious. I hadn’t really gotten that before. We went to this sushi place and ate tons of raw fish and drank a lot of sake. She cracked me up all night.” He paused. “Although I guess she did get funnier as the night went on, so maybe it was just the sake I enjoyed.” His brown eyes twinkled.

  Megan laughed. “How much did you drink?”

  Jared made a face. “Too much.”

  “Are you going to ask her out again?”

  “Probably.” He shrugged.

  The waiter bustled over and scribbled down their order of Caesar salad and shrimp fra diavolo.

  “Mind if I get serious for a moment?” Jared leaned in after the waitress hurried away. “Is anything wrong? You’ve seemed really distracted this week.”

  Megan blushed. “No, nothing.”

  He waited a moment; watched her take a sip. “Are you sure you’re okay with what you told me last week?”

  She was startled; she hadn’t expected this line of conversation. “It was a long time ago.”

  “Even so.” Jared said. “But actually what I meant was, in the sober light of day are you okay with the fact that you told me about it?”

  “Oh.” She blushed again and was happy the pub was dark. “It felt good to tell you. I trust you; not just your opinions, you.”

  “Good.” He leaned back. “I was afraid you were avoiding me. I’m glad you know you can trust me. Because you can.”

  “I know.” She paused. “Was I avoiding you?”

  Now it was Jared’s turn to blush. “Weren’t you?”

  She fiddled with her napkin. “I’m not sure.”

  He cocked his head.

  She brushed a crumb off the table.

  “Megan.” He took a deep breath. “Do you think I should ask Suzanne out again?”

  Megan looked up; her heart was beating fast. “It sounds like you like her.” Her foot jiggled under the table. “But it’s not up to me.”

  “It could be. You know, I wouldn’t be going out with Suzanne, or anyone else for that matter, if there was a good reason not to.”

  The noise from the debate in her head was deafening.

  “Okay, I’m just going to say this, although I wish I had a few more beers in me for courage,” Jared said. “For a long time now, I’ve been wondering about us. Together, as more than friends. Maybe I’m an idiot and I’ve just been hoping for too long.” He paused. “Oh hell, I’m already out on a limb here, so I’m not even going to preface this with ‘I think.’”

  He took a deep breath. “I’m in love with you.” He exhaled. “Now you can fire me as a friend and as an employee.” He sat back.

  Megan leaned towards him. “Are you kidding? I think you just got promoted.”

  ————

  Later that night, after a two-hour dinner at which the meal was only a condiment, Jared hailed her a cab. As the yellow sedan screeched up to the curb, Jared whispered in her ear. “You know how we were joking earlier about whether this was our first date or our hundredth?”

  Megan nodded as chills crawled up and down her spine.

  “Let’s say it’s our first.” He leaned over and kissed her very gently on the lips.

  After the cab door closed and she was speeding away, she put her fingers to her just-kissed lips. This time, there was no accompanying terror in her heart.

  Chapter 8

  Journal Entry #8

  January 5, 2001

  When I was young, I anticipated Christmas with the same ambivalence that I felt as Matthew’s first day of kindergarten crawled toward me. I was excited in both instances because it was the time of year to be excited; the pre-game props of colored lights and Christmas carols or new pencils and a lunchbox can’t help but jangle up the nerves. But mostly I dreaded the arrival of Christmas like I dreaded the arrival of that big, yellow school bus I was supposed to shepherd Matthew onto. As always, my polished face hid the queasy feeling in my stomach, “Isn’t this exciting?!” Then later, after the sleigh, or bus, lumbered on its way, the world was startlingly quiet, a jolting fresh emptiness; my hand, still warm from the small piece of my heart briefly clenched there, waving, reaching.

  We did try back in those cold Decembers. We hung ornaments and had Christmas rituals, although they were performed not so much as an exercise in unity, but as a mask for isolation. I relished my Christmas parties in school—the secret Santas, the sweet berry punch, the brightly frosted reindeer cookies. For a scheduled hour or two, I was a member of a sticky, delirious joy.

  Dana’s boyhood Christmas’ on the other hand, were steeped in ceremony and love; holidays to the hilt. I imagine a lush, Town & Country celebration with polished silverware, gold-rimmed china, red velvet bows and black velvet dresses, a roaring copper fire, a snowy white neighborhood, a majestic green pine, all beautifully wrapped in warm, silky
conversation. There was definitely no dread in his countdown to Santa.

  Of course, when we were married, Dana and I opted for his family traditions instead of mine.

  This year, Dana and I were determined to have a “normal” Christmas amidst a most unusual year, and we made sure that every detail played out as tradition scripted. Dana arrived early on Christmas Eve to help decorate the tree, and the kids, overjoyed to see him and already high on the holiday, clung to him, literally keeping one hand on him while using the other to hang ornaments. Then Dana organized his scavenger hunt, and in our search for treasure around our neighborhood, our joyous shouts—“I found a mailbox with a wreath!”—and bright-eyed laughter blew harder than the icy wind. After we burst back into the house, stomping our boots and peeling off layers, we lit a fire and sang and danced along with Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra. We were fully connected as a family, and the happiness that crowded into the room took me by the shoulders and shook me, reminding me what a wonderful father Dana is to my children, and what a toll his absence is having on them.

  And on me.

  Finally, after our dinner of fondue (cheese for dinner, chocolate for dessert), Matthew and Gillian nestled into us for Dana’s animated reading of The Night Before Christmas. As the kids went up to bed, the stockings were hung by the chimney with care, and there were high hopes, I think, that in the morning Daddy would still be there.

  Oddly, the only moment that felt awkward during the whole day was in the late afternoon when Dana went to pour us a drink, and he hesitated in front of the liquor cabinet as if unsure whether he should ask my permission. He looked at me, a thousand questions scrolling through his eyes, and I looked away. The moment quickly passed, and he poured the cocktails with a little heavier hand.

  After Matthew and Gillian were finally tucked away, Dana and I sunk down onto our kid-worn couch, not exhausted by the day as per our usual end-of-the-day sink, but I think, quietly encouraged by how well it had gone. It didn’t feel strange to be sitting close to him, and although perhaps our edges were dull due to the seductive combination of wine, Christmas lights, and a fire, when Dana reached out to stroke my hair, I longed to melt into him. He whispered in my ear. “You’re beautiful.”

  And you know what? For the first time in a long time, I almost felt it. I leaned into him, and we kissed, tentatively at first—those ultra-soft kisses that awaken deep cravings—and then hungrily. This wasn’t about the kids; this was about us, Dana and I, and it was a gift.

  The next morning, when the kids bounced into our bedroom at the crack of dawn to announce Santa’s arrival, Dana and I greeted them together.

  People have always told me I’m beautiful. I remember when I was young, random ladies would pat my head in a pitied response to my mother’s departure and ooze a rendition of “poor little girl. And so pretty too.” As if it was all the more tragic because I was pretty. As if my beauty should have held my mother in place.

  Because everyone knows if you’re beautiful, you’ve got it made, right? It’s easy street all the way—emotionally, financially, socially, and of course, romantically. Beautiful people do not get their hearts broken. For me, being beautiful was also supposed to lure my mother back. In my fantasy, she’d breeze in the door, take in her attractive, charismatic daughter, and realize that she made a monumental mistake. See how glamorous I am, Mother? See how everyone loves me? Watch me Eva! Watch me Mommy! You should have stayed.

  You should have stayed.

  My mother. I guess she’ll always have that title, even though it’s been so very long since she’s worn that crown. For a long time I’ve thought of her not as Mother or Mom, but as Evelyn or Eva, declaring to everyone—myself included—that she was a person of no real consequence. No title; no import.

  But clearly, she will always have enormous consequence. Her actions, and then her later lack of them, have chiseled who I am today. Never more so than when I had Matthew and Gillian. Every single time one of them reached for me with their chubby little arms and eager face and demanded “up,” an ache would pulse down deep in my soul, buckling my knees with its surge. While I snuggled my child in close, I also wanted to scream at the top of my lungs: How could you have walked out on me?! At those moments, my kisses served two purposes: bestowing adoration onto a baby-soft cheek, and choking back the desire to just open up my mouth and wail, letting free all the questions, all the pain, all the demons living inside of my heart.

  But what would people think once those demons were let loose, and more importantly, how fast would those people sprint away from me? I couldn’t let anyone see inside, I couldn’t let anyone know that I was not who I hold myself up to be. I know all too well what happens when I do.

  So I never screamed.

  We all hide pieces of ourselves; beauty just provides better hiding places.

  All of my life I have tried to be someone my mother would approve of. It’s all the more astonishing when I remind myself that I don’t even know her; I really have no idea what she would endorse, what she would find appealing. My lifelong endeavor has been based purely on an assumption.

  Beauty’s in the eye of the beholder, isn’t that the saying? But it is oh so ironic that most of the time we have no idea what the beholder actually considers beautiful. We assume we know and proceed accordingly. But so often we’re only trying to attain some ideal that we ourselves have created; an ideal that has nothing to do with what the “beholder” in reality considers dear.

  January 1995

  New York City

  The snow was tapering off in Manhattan, and already the white fluff was grimy, gray slush. Megan’s white Nikes were soaking wet and filthy, and drops of cold, gritty snow had sprayed up her stockings, leaving textured black polka dots on her calves. Megan knew that Zoe—who could afford a cab anytime, anywhere—would have a heart attack if she saw the sneaker/stocking combo. She sighed. She really needed to get her boots back from Jared’s.

  At eight o’clock in the morning, she was already having one of those days. Somehow she’d overslept, and when her alarm finally broke through her thick dreams, the time on the clock shot her straight out of cozy and into the rudeness of her shower, which on a good day needed 10 minutes to warm up. She yelped as she stepped into the icy cascade, then held her breath and lathered fast while goosebumps duked it out for space on her skin. She rinsed and reached for the conditioner, only to remember with horror that yesterday she had banged out the last drop. There was no time to mourn however, or to celebrate the warmth of her towel. She ripped through her tangled hair with a brush, ripped through two pairs of panty hose, and then ripped a nail down to the skin as she hurried to lock the apartment door.

  She cursed several taxi drivers as they cruised by her, and then, as she caught a glimpse of herself in a deli window, forgave them. I wouldn’t stop either. She tried to smooth down her halo of frizzy, Ronald McDonald hair.

  She began to speed walk, New York style—long gait; arms swinging; focus straight ahead, alert and ready to dodge the prancing poodle on a leash, coffee-guzzling pedestrian, or open manhole. With each long stride she tried not to think about Jared, but she knew that he was as much a part of the chaos of her morning as were all of the logistical malfunctions. She was mad at him, she was confused about him, and most of all she missed him. They had been apart for a few weeks, but the hole he’d left this past weekend at Tess’s wedding was different from the one gaping inside of her; this new hole was outside of her body, right next to her, a void that occupied space and volume but couldn’t hold her hand.

  Of course, the wedding itself had been salt on the wound. But as much as she wished to be a bride, she still wasn’t sure whether Jared should be the one waiting at the end of the aisle in a black tux and incandescent expression of wonder. He had no such doubts, and ironically, it was his certitude about their future that had created the rock-solid stage for her vacillation. At least until recent
ly, when it became obvious that Megan’s long-standing excuse for their gridlock had been a mirage.

  “It’s not the job, is it?” Jared challenged her a few weeks ago after he started work at a new agency. The broken glass in his eyes hurt more than the angry, thorny words or their decision to spend some time apart.

  Time to myself; time to meet different guys, and see…

  But she didn’t have much interest in meeting new men, at least not yet. And really, the men she met had been yawns compared to Jared. At Tess’s wedding, Megan walked down the aisle with a prematurely graying accountant who was nice enough, but had her plotting her escape after five minutes together at the bar. Derek however, was not to be deterred; he appeared at her shoulder every time she switched groups, following her across several conversations and then clear across the room to Allie. Even her “I’m sorry, I have a boyfriend,” said with a polite smile and dash of the Heisman strong-arm hadn’t helped. And neither had Allie.

  Megan chuckled to herself as she remembered it, and then glanced at her watch and forgot all about it. She urged the elevator to hurry up. She was late to a meeting and needed to pop into the ladies room to clean off her stockings and put on some makeup. She rushed into her office with a flurry of apologies and pulled out her chair.

  Her boots.

  She spun around.

  “Jared stopped by early and left those for you,” her assistant said in answer to the question mark on Megan’s face.

  ————

  Red roses. They were the only flower Tess wanted at her wedding reception, and they were everywhere. The bride carried a bouquet of long-stemmed red roses, the bridesmaids carried sprays of red mini-roses, and Gavin and his groomsmen each wore a rose on their lapels. Roses bloomed on all the tables, on the bar, and on top of the towering tiers of cake. Women needn’t have bothered with perfume as the sweet, flowery scent overpowered everything else in the huge dining room, including the body odor from the band.

  Allie wrapped up a conversation with a guest she didn’t know, and turned towards Megan, who had just joined her from the bar. Megan rolled her eyes at Allie as a moment later Derek sidled up to them.